


A Shadow, A Shot

by Torched22



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Confessions, Killing, Revelations, fighting nature
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:28:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23100964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torched22/pseuds/Torched22
Summary: Malcolm kills someone in order to save his team. It was the 'right' thing to do, but it begins to splinter his sanity.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 41





	A Shadow, A Shot

It was clean. That’s what they kept telling him. But it didn’t feel clean.

Even now, hours later, he could feel the weight of the weapon in his hand, the drag of his index finger over the trigger. The clock seemed to stop, its second hand warping reality, stretching each minute into an hour, each hour into a day. His nostrils flared as his mind conjured the pungent smell that was draped around him in that moment. Every detail had been indelibly etched into his memory.

The sound of it. The muzzle flash. The recoil. 

It wasn’t enough to do it once, no. Three shots, one after the other, after the other. In the act, his eyes peeled open in abject horror and utter fascination as the metal hurtled towards the East Side Strangler. Each bullet hit their mark, tearing flesh asunder in a spray of rose red droplets. The older man had twisted and sank, his body crumpling to the ground in slow motion. 

It was the killer’s eyes that haunted Malcolm now. The way they had been wide with surprise, the white’s showing his shock. And as the bullets bit into him, that shock was mixed with terror, swirled to perfection like a cocktail of horror being stirred with gaining panic. He lay on the floor, sputtering, lips moving, but saying nothing. His chest struggled to rise and fall and he flopped on the concrete like a fish out of water. The sound was unbearable...that wet drag of him trying to suck air into his heaving chest through an ocean of blood that was fast filling his lungs and esophagus.

Malcolm had rushed to him, coming to an abrupt halt over the gasping man marching steadily towards death. The color was draining from his face, save for the ruby red blood spilling out the corners of his lips. Those wide eyes were affixed to Malcolm, screaming a wordless plea. And he could do nothing but stand above him like an angel of death, hair falling into his face, sticking to the cold sweat that gathered there. Dani’s gun remained in his steady grasp, bound to him by fingers possessed. 

He expected his own horror to crest, the panic of what he’d just done to rise above him menacingly before crashing into him so hard that it would make him disassociate. And yet, he felt no panic. His mind was quiet. His hand was steady. 

“It was a clean shot,” Gil assured him, back at the precinct. “If you hadn’t done what you did, Dani and I would be dead.” 

Malcolm just looked at him with a broken tilt to his lips. The words were meant to heal, to soothe, but he found that he needed no reassurances. Not about killing the killer who had his team tied up, a glittering knife held to Dani’s long, tan throat. 

He’d managed to make it through the FBI without ever taking a life. It was a fact that he was ever grateful for. Hell, he hadn’t even killed John when he had the chance. And now, here he was, seated in Gil’s office, hands folded neatly on his lap, blue eyes an ocean of conflicted emotion.

He was terrified, but not for the reasons that Gil or the team expected. 

Dani was in the hospital. Gil had driven him home and offered to stay, but Malcolm turned him down. He shut the door on the lieutenant’s retreating back and walked into his loft. 

There would be no sleep. Although, he knew that if he did close his eyes, there would be no night terrors awaiting him. 

He sat on his bed and meditated until the morning sun streamed through his window. Perfunctorily, he did his yoga routine, showered, dressed, ate, took his meds and read his daily affirmation. “I am powerful,” the little black words leapt from the tiny card and burned at his eyes until he blinked them away. 

Biting his lip, he tossed the card on the counter and left his home for the only place he could go now.

Martin’s eyes shone with pleased shock as they fell upon his form like a physical weight. “My boy, what are you doing here?” he asked surprised. After all, the last time Malcolm stood in this spot, they had a rather nasty spat. Malcolm threatened not to return and stormed out in a huff. 

Yet, here he was, draped in the early morning light, sickness churning in his stomach and threatening to claw up his throat. He swallowed it down and took a long breath, watching the dust float in the air that separated him from his father.

“Malcolm?” he queried once more, stepping to the end of his leash. “What is it?” his eyes darkened, his sixth sense catching the shift in his boy’s demeanor. 

Nothing. Silence. Malcolm wondered if he didn’t say anything at all...if perhaps...that would mean none of this was real. His lips parted and he recalled being in the cellar with John, telling the Junkyard Killer that he too heard that tiny voice niggling at the back of his skull. The one that he shoved down with medication and therapy and alcohol. But there was no silencing it now.

“What’s happened?” Martin said, exasperated. Curiosity radiated from him in waves and his eyes were trying so hard to peel back the layers that Malcolm wrapped around himself in self defense. But his walls were crumbling, and fast. 

“I killed someone,” he said plainly, letting the words bridge the gap that stood between he and his father. 

"I will always love you," his mind flash bulbed back to when he was eleven and his father stared into his soul to utter the words, "because we're the same." 

Had he known then? What Malcolm was?

"Y-you what?" Martin asked, scarcely able to believe what the young man had just said. 

"I had to shoot the East Side Strangler," he continued, "in order to save my team." 

Some of the shock on Martin's features began to wane. "Oh," he breathed with a chuckle. "That's different." 

"Is it?" Malcolm took several steps forward. 

"Yes, of course it is," Martin smiled as if he had every answer to every question Malcolm could ever pose. "It's not like you...killed someone...just to enjoy it." 

"But what if I did?" 

"What if you did...what?" Martin's eyes narrowed.

"Enjoyed it."


End file.
